Silent Night
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Wilson worries over House. Set during Detox. No slash intended. Oneshot. Songfic.


A/N: This is a random one-shot I decided to write. It's short and kind of shitty. Sorry.

This is set during the epidsode, "Detox."

Listen to **"Silent Night" by Damien Rice**. (And if I'm not mistaken, the real "Silent Night" was what House played at the end of the Christmas episode….)

No slash intended. Please read and review. Thank you.

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Silent Night

Wilson lay awake next to his sleeping wife, staring up at the shadows on his bedroom ceiling. It was House's first night without Vicodin, and he was spending it alone. Wilson couldn't help but imagine what House was enduring. Did he drink an extra glass of scotch when he arrived home earlier? Could he actually focus on the TV? Did he make it to his bedroom or did he just sleep on the couch? Did he even manage to fall asleep, or was the pain too much? Did he already regret taking the bet?

Wilson should be with him. The oncologist had to fight the temptation every minute to slip away and drive to his friend's apartment. House would just scowl at him and treat him like shit, refusing most of the help Wilson would offer. Wilson didn't care. He still wanted to be with House through this. House should have someone, shouldn't have to struggle alone. But that's what he wanted, wasn't it? House wanted to live his life alone. Wilson was the only one who could stand staying, the only one who wanted to, and the only one House allowed. But Wilson knew House wouldn't want even him around right now.

God, all Wilson wanted to do was help him. What was wrong with that? He would just fetch things for House to save him the walking. He would make sure House drank enough water and didn't skip any meals. He would give him a blanket for any chills or a fan for any fever. He would keep him company and talk to him, let his voice soothe House as much as it could. He would do anything to make sure his friend was as comfortable as possible, but all House would do is frown and squawk about being "fine" and throw around twice as many sarcastic comments. Even so, Wilson wanted to go. Wilson wanted to impose. Wilson wanted to be an unappreciated nuisance. He was good at it.

Instead, he lay on his side of the bed in the dark and failed to fall asleep. Julie had her back to him, a curl of her hair barely tickling his arm. He hadn't mentioned House to her; he knew she would just make some condescending remark or misunderstand. No, he had just wandered into their bedroom, after driving aimlessly around town and having a couple of drinks at a bar, to find her reading on her side of the bed. They never crossed sides. The last two wives had been like that too. He supposed that sex was an exception, but that always ended up becoming a rarer and rarer activity as time passed.

"Hello, James," she'd said, not looking up from her novel. The lamplight had reflected on her glasses. He'd sighed.

"Hello, Julie." He'd stepped out of his shoes and wandered into their walk-in closet, shedding his shirt into the hamper and hanging his belt next to the others on the belt rack. His tie had returned to its peg, also. Julie hadn't so much as glance at her shirtless husband when he crossed the carpet to their bathroom.

"How was work?" she had asked mechanically. He had run the sink, thrown water on his face, and ogled himself in the mirror, fatigue shocked out of him with the cold water.

"Fine," he had answered routinely, as he had turned the faucet off and dried his face with one of the towels. Yes, he had thought to himself, just another day of cancer. He had left out all the details about his best friend's first day of detoxing. "How was yours?" He really hadn't cared about what Julie had done. Whether she had gossiped with a friend over a thirty-dollar lunch or fucked Mr. Lawyer next door, it didn't matter to him anymore. But he asked because he had been raised polite, gentlemanly James Wilson. It wasn't even a thought-out decision; it was routine, like everything else in his life.

"Oh," she had said, "Just the last of the paperwork from the Fineman case. I picked up some of that razzle-berry ice cream at the grocery store; I know how much you like it. It's in the freezer."

"Thanks," he'd murmured, coming out of the bathroom. His mouth had tasted like toothpaste; the aftertaste of beer had only been left in his throat.

"I talked to Stacy today," she'd mentioned casually. Wilson hadn't known whether to groan or perk up and prompt her for more information. "She's having some trouble with her husband – some medical trouble."

Oh, God.

"She wanted to know if she could see you, have a chat."

"And what did you tell her?"

Julie had turned the page. "I told her you'd give her a call as soon as possible."

Wilson had winced privately. Shit.

Now, he was lying here, and Julie was asleep, oblivious to her husband's troubled mind.

Stacy. Wilson hadn't seen Stacy in a while – not for 5 years, actually. After she left House, Wilson busied himself with taking care of House in her place. Life had moved on and he had never bothered trying to talk to House's lover. He hadn't wanted to make the situation any worse than it was, and he hadn't ever really had much to say to her. They all shared friends, of course, so things never completely faded. Stacy had been the one to introduce Wilson to Julie after his second divorce; both women were lawyers. But Julie, Wilson, Stacy, and House all understood that what had happened between House and Stacy made things strained. Julie hadn't mentioned Stacy since House's infarction until tonight.

Wilson hadn't known how he felt about Stacy five years ago, and he still didn't know. They had been friends, and she had made House happy once. She had also permanently ruined House's leg, which had led to his Vicodin addiction and his bad personality change. Then again, by ruining his leg, she had saved his life, but after doing so, she'd left him heartbroken by terminating the relationship. Wilson didn't think he had ever been angry with her or resentful, but at the same time, he didn't know how well he could relate with her now. All this time had gone by, and the circumstances under which she had walked out of House's life and his had

The phone rang. He stumbled out of bed in a heap and scrambled for the cordless phone left out in the hallway.

"Hello?" he said breathlessly, expecting it to be House, calling him in massive pain or about to jump out the window or begging for a beer. He deflated when it was a nurse at the hospital.

"Oh," he said. "Yeah, the Kaplan girl."

He scratched the back of his head, turned around in the moonlight falling through the nearby

"Give her another couple of ounces of morphine but not more than five. Did she have dinner? Did she keep it down? Okay, good. Make sure she has enough pillows or something. Yeah – no, no problem. Okay – bye."

The phone was silent when he pushed the _off_ button. He sighed, slouched until his shoulders were caved in and his head was hung. He couldn't take it any longer. He had to call Greg. He'd get an earful of bitching for it, but he couldn't have peace of mind without knowing how House was holding up. He plodded downstairs; Julie slept on.

"What?" House sounded groggy – or maybe just pissed off and tired.

"House? It's me, Wilson."

"Of course it is. Who else calls me?"

"I – I just wanted to know how you're doing."

"James – it's 3 o'clock in the morning. I have to drag my ass to work in four hours."

"I – I know, but I couldn't sleep. I needed to know if you're okay."

House sighed in exasperation. "I'm fine. For God's sake, it's only been a day."

"Are you in pain?" Wilson cradled the phone to his ear, almost pressed into it. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, House's voice would sound closer, and he could sense more subtext.

"I'm always in pain," House said flatly. "You know that."

Wilson's doe eyes moved too quickly in the dark. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, on the last step.

"How bad is it?"

"Well, I was actually sleeping through it, after a drink or two, until you called."

Wilson nibbled on his lip. "Sorry."

House sighed. "Go to bed, Wilson. You look like hell if you get any less than five hours of sleep."

Wilson smiled faintly. "Good night." But he snatched the phone back up to his ear. "Oh, and Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me if you need anything?"

"Yes, God. Actually, God should be as serving as you are. The world would be a better place."

Wilson grinned. House was still being sarcastic; that was a good sign.

"Hey, why don't you be God?" House continued. "Bet you'd get paid more than you do now."

"Good night, Greg."

"Bet you'd get paid more than He does – you'd do a better job."

"Good night."

"And why do you call me Greg? You know I hate that."

"Which is exactly why I do it."

House bit back a moan, and Wilson's smiled dissipated.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Do you think I'm a liar or do you just really like that question?"

Wilson smiled weakly again.

"Good night," said House. The line died.

Wilson lowered the phone into his lap. He stared ahead in thought, hands rising up to his hair. He buried his fingers. His heart wasn't so anxious anymore, but he was still uneasy. He knew House suffered chronic pain, but he hated for his friend to be in anymore pain than he had to be. But he didn't like House on Vicodin either, did he? He almost shook his head and tucked it down, a sullen figure on the stairs.


End file.
